


The Mortal Sting

by Syls Darkplace (sylsdarkplace)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blasphemy, Gore, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-13 01:54:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2132715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylsdarkplace/pseuds/Syls%20Darkplace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Overseeing the crucifixion of hundreds of the righteous, the Boy King stumbles upon one soul he’s unwilling to give up to heaven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mortal Sting

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Evil!Sam Summer Challenge 2013: It's So Easy When You're Evil](http://evilsam-spn.livejournal.com/157157.html) and inspired by [Hands of Death](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Ovh4tsgoSE) by Rob Zombie and Alice Cooper.

I am the whore of fire  
I see through sulfur eyes  
I'm burning in denial  
I chill myself alive

  
Trees stunted and twisted by icy winds border the barren plain. A forest of crosses covers the pale stone stained with the blood of the crucified. Dust like soot rises around the few shivering bodies left murmuring prayers to an absent, feckless god.

Tall and gaunt, he strolls among them as if searching for something he’s lost but can’t recall. He knows only that there’s a dark, vast cavern in his chest, a gaping void, cold and empty as the space between the stars ... or maybe this is peace, he muses. No more guilt or hope or need. He’s free.

Tatters of denim and plaid cling to him like the last shredded pieces of his humanity. The cries of anguish and fear had long since lost their pull and meaning before their last echoes died over the plain. The mumbled prayers and quiet weeping mean nothing more than the buzzing white noise of televisions from countless childhood motel rooms.

The gossamer tendril of a voice draws him nearer _... Sam ..._ the broken, bloody body of a man, wounds oozing red, white shards of bones, naked, vulnerable _... Sammy ..._ the word slips from lips swollen and bitten raw in torment _... Sammy, please ..._ green eyes like spring leaves, full of hope and something sweet before they see the sulfur yellow of his own and they fill with tears.

The name and voice that once called him to heel, that comforted and shamed him cuts off with a gasp in the man’s throat as the Boy King shushes him.

“Hush,” he says, “the time for words is over.” But it’s too late. That familiar voice has snaked its way into the dark, empty space in his chest and chased the peace away. It’s brought with it a restless longing, a need so strong it can’t be ignored. His flesh hardens between his legs.

The man is beautiful in a way the Boy King has always known even when it was entwined with guilt and self-loathing, but those are gone now, discarded like useless childhood toys. He’s free to explore what he’d always denied himself. This, his brother, yes, that’s who he was, but he’s more ... he’s what is missing, the part that makes him whole.

He touches the bloody, tear-stained cheek and his fingertips burn and blacken the pale freckled skin. It only adds to the suffering his brother is enduring on the cross. The man hisses in pain. His beautiful eyes fall shut, and he shudders in agony as his bones crack and break. Crimson gushes from new wounds on the man’s arm and chest.

It hurts him deep inside, the echo of his brother’s pain, burrows into him, and gnaws like the teeth of hungry hell beasts. The body arches in torment against the rough wood, and a cry escapes the tattered lips. The Boy King presses his own to them, breathing in the intense heat and smoke as they sear at his touch.

He releases the man’s legs from the cross, and even as he lifts them around his hips, he feels the life ebbing away with the blood. It increases the urgency he feels, the instinctive thrust of hips, the desperate need to have and possess. The head of his cock blisters a trail along his brother’s crease before pushing into the crush of his body. His brother, his lover, screams as his insides sizzle and blister, flesh tears away, slicked with gore, and then he pounds into the thrashing body. He’s amazed, always been amazed, at how stubborn and tough this man his brother is.

But it can’t last. Dean is only human after all, and he grows weak, limp, and lifeless in the King’s arms, even as he continues to thrust into the broken, bloody, burnt flesh. His teeth tear at the throat and shoulders, hands leave blackened prints as his cock rips into the cold flesh.

He climaxes with an agonized cry, spilling deep into the cooling body. Pleasure and satisfaction wash through him. He gently kisses the charred lips and gazes into sightless green eyes that are turned to heaven.

He feels anger. What did Heaven ever do for his brother? For either of them? Nothing but a lifetime of manipulation, torment, and betrayal. And now, to finally claim what is rightfully his and have Heaven steal it away ...

This will not do.

He lifts the broken body from the cross ...

They’re cocooned in completed darkness, but he can see the pale, unblemished skin under his hands that no longer burn but warm the chilled flesh. He’s still buried, balls deep in the body. It flutters and squeezes around him. Strong thighs grip him, calloused fingers dig into his shoulders.

Thick lashes flutter, and verdant eyes search his face. Full, pink lips move to form a word that the throat can’t articulate.

“What is it, Dean? Tell me.”

“Sam!” he gasps.

“Yes, Dean,” the Boy King says.

“Sammy ...” says his brother, his demon lover, his whore, Consort of the King.

“Yes,” the King says with a thrust of his hips. It isn’t blood or gore this time that slicks his way, but his brother’s welcoming body. The Consort’s lips part, and his irises blow wide, swallowing green and then the white like gleaming lumps of black coal. The glistening pink of his tongue sweeps out over King’s lips. He crushes their mouths together and steals his brother’s breath.  The Consort groans, and his body arches into the rhythm of the King’s working hips.

The Consort’s fingers tangle in King’s hair, yank at it as he writhes on the King’s cock. He moans, every movement begging for more, and the King gives it to him.  His body is hot again, searing in an inhuman way. They’re slick with sweat, the Consort’s breath is ragged in the King’s ear, and he feels the heat and pressure building. They’re twin stars going supernova.

Pale freckled lids flicker over obsidian eyes. The King grins. This is it – his soulmate. This is how it was always meant to be.

 

-30-


End file.
